


My Little Tiny Child

by PostApocolypticAlien



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Post-Episode: s06e06 How the Ghosts Stole Christmas, angsty christmas fic, emily fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21955000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PostApocolypticAlien/pseuds/PostApocolypticAlien
Summary: After ghost-busting, Mulder and Scully visit Emily's grave.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Kudos: 17





	My Little Tiny Child

**Author's Note:**

> For the purpose of this fic let's pretend that Emily was buried in Washington rather than San Diego

The energy in the room grows sombre as she places the present down on the coffee table. Mulder watches, hesitant, holding his breath as he waits, preparing for the next bit.

She says nothing, just fidgets with her sleeve cuffs and refuses to look at him.

This is what he was worried about. When her mind would wander.

He gently sets his own present down.

“Scully-“

“I want to see her.”

The request is clear and crisp. Mulder wonders how long she’s been contemplating it for; in this short moment she had fallen quiet or since she’d woken up this morning?

“Are you su-“

“Yes,” she cuts in immediately and Mulder falls silent. She gives him a quick glance then. “Yeah, I’m sure,” is spoken quietly, softly.

She’s buried in a small graveyard just outside of Washington, at the insistence of Scully. The funeral was funded by Scully. And by Mulder, and Mrs Scully. Even Bill had begrudgingly chipped in. This was all they had- a forgotten church for forgotten souls.

Mulder stops the car. Beside him, Scully is quiet. She had been quiet for the whole drive, drifting away, playing with her cross, somewhere far away. Mulder hadn’t bothered her, hadn’t tried to talk to her, hadn’t tried to distract her.

That had been his goal earlier. Keep her distracted. Distract her with the house and the story and the ghosts. It had worked and those early moments had been fun, the bantering, watching her pretend not to be scared when she was. He was scared, too.

It had been fun. Then they shot each other. Well, hadn’t really. Either way, the intention was still there. How could he even think about aiming a gun at her?

His hand reaches out across the console; an action to gain her attention but also a silent apology.

She looks towards him and his hand still against hers he says, 

“Are you ready?”

She bites the inside of her lip, looks warily out towards the graveyard and nods.

His feet crunch against the snow as he steps out of the car, footprints forming, documenting his steps. He shivers against the cold.

He smiles softly and she smiles sadly. 

The gate creaks as Mulder pushes it open, dragging particles of snow as he does so.

There are no lights in the graveyard, they’re flashlights create a straight beam across the headstones, circles of light bouncing from stone to stone as they navigate their way through cemetery. It’s creepy. 4am on Christmas morning they wander through graves.

He follows Scully through the darkness just as she has him countless times before, the only noise the sound of their feet in the snow.

It doesn’t take long, she knows where the grave is, they both do having stood here a year before.

It pains him to see how small the grave is, the smallest in the row. 

He shines his torch on the headstone, sees the deterioration hidden beneath the snow. Scully crouches, reaching out a hand to wipe the snow from the lettering.

EMILY SIM.

1994- 1997

Three years old. She was just three years old.

Scully had wanted more, a small message to finish it off but when asked what the message should say Scully had fumbled, the clear realisation that she hadn’t known the girl long enough to write one simple message.

Her daughter.

A part of Scully had lived in that girl and when that girl died, so had that part of Scully. 

Another part died along with it when they replaced her body with sandbags.

Suddenly choked with his own overwhelming emotion, Mulder turns his head away from the grave to look at Scully. Her torch light bounces off from the stone, surrounded by light and shadows. She looks ethereal; tear stained and hair like fire against the snow.

She’s crying.

As silent as her tears, his hand wraps around hers, reminding her that he’s still here. It awakens something in her, ignites the hidden vulnerability she fights to hide.

He welcomes her into his arms. Encasing her and holds her in the devastating void, flashlights falling limply in their hands.

Mulder shuts his eyes, relishes her welcomed warmth against the cold. In turn, he gives her his comfort, a promise that he’ll always be there.

She sniffs and moves against him, away from him. Mulder unhooks his arms to give her space. She looks up at him; even in the darkness he’ll always know when she’s looking at him.

“I think I want a moment alone,” she apologises but Mulder understands, she’s reaped all she can from him, she’s let those walls down briefly, ventured out into the unknown now it’s time for her to retreat.

So Mulder nods, brushes a strand of hair out of the way, and kisses her forehead.

He’s not done that since the hospital hallway, when it was her life that hung in the balance, her grave he could be standing at now.

He recedes into the darkness, toward a bench nearby. He can still see her from where he sits. She switches off her torch and kneels. Is she praying, he wonders. There’s a mind to look away, to allow her this moment of privacy but regardless, he keeps his gaze on Scully.

I do not gaze at Scully he once said; how much of a lie that had been.

She wipes her eyes and stands. He takes a deep breath when she stands in front of him.

“Ready?” he asks, letting out the breath with the word.

She nods, I’m ready, she says and Mulder stands, beginning to walk the way they came in, flashlights leading the way.

He stops, however, when he doesn’t hear her footsteps. She looks back at the grave, mind in two so he walks towards her, presses a hand to her arm.

“She’ll still be here,” he says gently. She looks towards him, a new wave of tears forming in her eyes.

He takes her hand again, entwining his fingers between hers and gives a gentle tug and a humble smile.

“Come on,” he says. “We should get you home.”

She gives him her own small smile and allows him to lead the way, leaving the child to rest.


End file.
